Aleks Kotov
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Vol 7, Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 12:23:44 +0000 UTC◆ Center of the World, Espluar, Asha's POV. ◆
The noisy revelry was distracting and made it impossible to think. She wanted to go down to the lower deck and knock everyone's heads together, but she needed to conserve her strength.
Perhaps she should go fetch some rum, just to warm herself up? The treacherous thought crept into her head, but the girl shook it off.
The gold beneath her hands melted again, reshaping itself: a piston, a wheel, a small oar, a kettle.
She was building a model, not only because it saved her strength, but also because… he had done it that way. All she had to do was follow his example, and everything would be fine.
The girl opened the lid of the small kettle and poured in water from a cup.
A little magic to bring it to a boil…
Puff! Puff! Puff! The cylinder responded, pushing the wheel. The small oar attached to it sliced the air, but still not the way it should. Damnation, how could she make a wheel that paddled properly with an oar, yet was small enough not to take up half the ship?
After a few more rotations, the wheel ground to a halt.
Too complicated.
With a sigh, she took a sip of water and leaned against the half-melted lightning cannon from which she had taken the gold for her experiment.
She was exhausted. To make this contraption puff along the way she wanted, she had changed its shape hundreds of times, trying to reproduce what she had seen more than once. How she regretted never bothering to understand in detail how it worked. For instance, she never figured out the purpose of those long, winding tubes, even though everything seemed to work without them.
Only one thing remained: to make this machine row in place of humans.
But her strength was nearly gone. The cold seeped through her insulated cloak, tickled her nostrils, and breathed into her ears, whispering of eternity. Oblivion.
"Asha, why are you sitting here alone? I thought you weren't the kind of person to refuse some fun," came her friend's voice from the hold, along with the sharp scent of rum.
"I'm working."
"Working? On what? Wait, where did you get so much gold? Don't tell me you ruined one of Captain Flint's ship cannons?"
"He's out cold anyway, what difference does it make?" she shrugged.
"But you could've just taken some kettle. Why gold?"
"It's easier to melt than iron, costs less mana."
"I see… Yeah, I guess I'm not thinking straight," she smiled. "And what is this thing, anyway? Maybe I can help? Believe me, I know a thing or two about mechanisms."
Asha brightened. That was it! Her friend could help her solve the problem with the oars.
"Look!" she exclaimed, her spirits rising all at once. "This part moves back and forth, back and forth, and…"
"Moves… back and forth?" Ashley giggled drunkenly, instantly imagining where this was going. A dark, secluded spot, her friend alone with some strange contraption. Casually, she added:
"You know, we've got some handsome sailors downstairs who wouldn't mind your company."
"What? What are you talking about? Only you can help me with this!"
"Me? Sorry, but I'm not… well, you're sweet, but… Ugh, fine, I'll just help with this thing. Trust me, you need to make the shape less angular and more natural, so to speak…"
Ashley reached out to the kettle to reshape it with her Gift, but the moment her palm touched it, a searing pain shot through her hand.
"Ah! Hot!" she yelped, sobering up instantly. "What kind of weird toys are you making?"
"This is important! It'll make things better for everyone!"
"I don't think the lads will appreciate what kind of 'better' it makes…" Ashley chuckled. "I get it, cold metal is unpleasant, but you really overdid it with the heat."
"I meant it will help us escape from here!"
"What? How could this possibly help us?" Ashley rolled her eyes.
"Just let me explain…" Asha sighed and reached for the kettle again, evaporating the water inside.
After several dozen minutes of rambling explanations and wild hand gestures to fill in the gaps, Asha set the steam engine running and demonstrated the little oar flapping in the air.
Her friend listened skeptically, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, the idea is interesting, I'll give you that. I'm even surprised; never thought you'd be this inventive."
"But?" Asha pressed.
"But what?"
"You're about to say 'but,' then spend ages explaining why my idea won't work!" the mage girl sulked, folding her arms across her flat chest.
"How about I just give you a hug instead, come here!" Ashley exclaimed and wrapped her arms around her.
"Hey! Don't! I don't like it when people do that!" the girl protested, but her friend was relentless. She had to give an ultimatum.
"Either you stop, or I'll bite you!"
"Go ahead, I allow it," Ashley replied magnanimously.
She had no choice but to endure until Ashley was done. She couldn't waste her last mana to burn her. Besides, Ashley was warm. The cold that had tormented her for the past half hour retreated for a while.
It was even a little sad when she finally let go.
"You see, it doesn't really matter how you transform magic into a ship's motion. The problem is, we don't have enough magic to get far enough from the island before we need to recover; that's the real issue," Ashley said gently. "Understand?"
"That's what I'm saying: with this thing we can move without magic! We'll only spend mana creating it."
"But, wait… the kettle doesn't have to be heated with magic?" Ashley mused.
"No!"
"Then why were you wasting precious reserves on it?"
"Uh…" She froze. What an idiot; she could've saved a little mana. Well, most of it went on melting gold anyway, so she hadn't wasted much. Yes, yes.
"Well then, help me with the oar, I really don't know what else to do," Asha awkwardly changed the subject, shivering again.
The cold returned with renewed strength. It bit into her muscles, scraped along her bones.
"It's simple, we just don't need the oar. Let's make a screw propeller, like this." With a single gesture, Ashley reshaped the small oar into the necessary detail. "It will work just as well as an oar, trust me."
"Really? I'm… so glad," Asha exhaled in relief. Weakness chained her body, even lifting her hand was difficult.
Her friend looked at her with concern, then ran a palm across her forehead.
"You're cold. How much of your reserve have you already spent?"
"Two-thirds, maybe a little more. I just want to sleep…"
"No, you can't sleep!" Ashley panicked.
"Build another one, but bigger, please. Alright?" the girl murmured drowsily, closing her eyes.
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A yellow, viscous mass trickled from the ladle's spout into an elongated shell body. The alchemist carefully checked the level, added a bit more with a wooden scoop, then screwed in the detonator. Behind him, using scales and a simple scoop, others were filling artillery cartridge cartridges. A slightly surreal scene, but there was no time to even attempt automation.
And yet it should have been automated, otherwise sooner or later everything would blow sky-high.
For now, however, the only things flying into the air would be whatever these shells struck.
"Isn't it dangerous to heat such powerful substances?" the alchemist woman asked in her raspy voice for the umpteenth time.
"As long as we don't exceed the temperature, everything will be fine," I reassured her.
The captured experimenters from the Short castle had become the foundation of this small workshop. They were skilled enough not to need long training, and experienced enough to handle substances that could explode violently.
In the neighboring workshop, work was boiling too. Literally boiling.
Yellowish steam constantly drifted out of pipes, and the workers inside looked like plague doctors. The fact that the production of nitrocellulose was elementary did not make it safe. The mixture of sulfuric and nitric acid constantly fumed in the air, and despite the ventilation, it did nothing to improve anyone's health. More time had been spent not on the procedure of combining cellulose with acids, but on equipping the staff with protection in case the ventilation failed.
So far, things were going well.
Finished rounds were packed into crates, and soldiers carried them off for loading. Unlike their comrades guarding the perimeter of the workshop, the soldiers inside carried only crossbows.
It would have been foolish to use firearms in a place where everything could blow up at any moment.
Satisfied that all was in order, I headed for the station.
The station stood almost flush with the workshops, so that there would be as little delay as possible in transporting such vital products. Likely, the molten TNT inside the shells wouldn't even cool before reaching the front lines.
The locomotive was being refilled with water, station workers straining at hand pumps to transfer it from a cistern. The bunkers were restocked with coal.
Behind the steel plates, a fiery heart burned, keeping the boilers at pressure. The train had arrived from Reikland only half an hour ago, so it didn't require a long heating procedure.
Crowds filled the platform. Recruits awaiting their first deployment, noisy and nervous. Relatives saying farewell. Small merchants hawking trinkets at outrageous prices.
It almost made one nostalgic…
Metal mages moved between the cars, touching the train here and there to check its mechanisms.
This time there were far more of them than usual. The locomotive had arrived from Reikland with Pit's entire team, including the man himself.
The reworked shells required new artillery.
It would have been foolish to fire them from crooked, muzzle-loading cannons. Simple smoothbores were fine for filling a field with grapeshot, but to launch a shell accurately even five kilometers away… they were sorely lacking, as I had already witnessed.
And if employing mages for mass production of firearms was irrational, then for the much smaller number of artillery pieces, it was perfectly reasonable.
That was what we would do.
A whistle blew. A policeman with a short club at his belt and a white armband ordered the loading to begin. The recruits, jostling, scrambled into the cars, trying to claim seats near the windows.
The mages too made their way over, without haste, heading for their assigned car. The mechanisms had been checked and oiled. Workers coiled hoses, the storekeeper locked up the coal warehouse, and the quartermaster checked the manifests one last time. Meister Orin shifted uneasily from foot to foot, unsure which car to board. In his hands he carried a small box that rattled with vials. The trip would be a first not only for the new means of killing, but also for the new means of saving.
It was time for me to board as well.
"Go to the officers' car," I resolved his doubts, while I myself headed toward the locomotive.
This time I had no intention of riding with the mages; all questions about the guns had already been discussed. I wanted to clear my head.
The engineer greeted me with a bow.
"Would you like to signal the departure, my lord?" he asked proudly.
Instead of answering, I pulled the cord. The valve opened, and superheated steam rushed into the whistle, its blaring call echoing across the station, startling everyone around.
The engineer seized the levers.
Steam pressed against the pistons. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, the locomotive gathered speed. The cars shook, one after another, as they lurched into motion. Beyond the thick glass of the engine room, bare trees, stripped of foliage, glided past in solemn procession.
Withered grass, a leaden sky ready to burst into rain at any moment.
Autumn was in full swing. And so was the war.
Not a single day passed without an attack. Usually at night, sometimes during the day. Ever since the spotlights had begun illuminating the battlefield, time of day hardly mattered. Ten men, a hundred, or a thousand — they all broke upon the defense. Like lemmings running off a cliff, the outcome was obvious.
But the Duke didn't care. He sent them again and again. Often without any visible goal or hope of success. The Duke was testing, balancing, looking for that number of expendables that would force us to fire the cannons. He dressed peasants as priests to provoke us. Sent men with burning hay just to raise a smoke screen, behind which there might not even follow an attack… or there might.
It was as if he had decided to compete with us, to see what would run out first — our powder, or his men.
And behind his camp they were clearly building something like a trebuchet…
The Duke's army spread across the countryside, digging into the earth. The spoil heaps around his camp grew so fast that I began to wonder if he was trying to tunnel all the way to our positions.
But if his strikes at the hills were more for distraction, then in the forest he threw his main forces. Reasonably assuming our positions were weaker there, he sent wave after wave straight across the ash fields. Until the once lush forest became a lunar landscape, riddled with craters. The few trees that had survived the fire were shattered by cannonballs and dried out by the battle prayers of holy fathers. Only charred stumps remained, gray ash-covered ground, and piles of corpses too numerous to bury.
For two months the fighting had not stopped, and still he wanted more.
As I expected, he never showed himself again. But his griffons… they were a problem. Ranging through the rear, they attacked supply caravans, tried to set fire to nearby villages, and brought down aerostats, either by diving from above or shooting from heavy bolt-throwers at maximum range.
Fortunately, holes could be patched, and the number of brave fools willing to close in despite the risk of catching a bullet grew smaller each week.
And once the railway had been extended to our positions, they disappeared altogether. All supplies were easier and safer to deliver by train; as a result, wagons and carts, so vulnerable to griffons — simply vanished.
Incidentally, griffons prowling in our rear were one of the reasons I preferred traveling by train. True, Falcon could still deliver me faster anywhere I needed, but the chance of meeting an enemy patrol grew ever higher. Flying had become imprudent. After all, I assumed the Duke, like me, believed that killing the enemy leader was enough to win.
The train, though, was an excellent means of transport. Massive. Sturdy.
So when something clanged against its armor, I didn't even realize what it was.
Clang! Clang!
It repeated clearly again. Bewildered, I scanned the surroundings and immediately knocked the engineer off his feet.
"Down!"
Crash!
A steel bolt the size of an arm pierced the tempered glass, tearing through the spot where the engineer had stood. Shards rained down on us, slicing skin. I drew my revolver and tried to catch sight of the attacker, but no luck. The viewing glass was small, and through it you couldn't see a damned thing.
I threw open the door, craning my head.
Above us a griffon circled. Mounted on the saddle before its rider was a weapon: a heavy bolt-thrower. The rider tried to reload it midair, swapping out the quiver-box. Straight ahead — another griffon. Flying directly toward us, its rider carried no weapon, but in the griffon's claws hung a wooden barrel.
Cursing at the shaking, I steadied my revolver's barrel with magic. Let them come closer. Closer still…
Fire!
I emptied the whole cylinder, scoring several hits on the beast and striking the barrel too.
With an angry screech, the griffon released its wounded claw. For a brief moment the barrel hovered in the air. From the bullet hole liquid spurted, igniting in midair. The barrel fell onto the tracks directly ahead of us.
And exploded.
I managed to slam the door shut just before the fireball engulfed us. The locomotive burst through the wall of flame. Tongues of fire licked into the cab through the shattered window, sliding over us, searing our backs. The engine roared, wreathed in fire. Like an octopus, the flames coiled around the locomotive. The engineer yanked at the emergency brake, the wheels shrieked.
I grabbed him and dragged him back into the engine room. From there we rushed to the officers' car. Meister Orin ran toward us, still clutching the precious box of penicillin.
"Meister, put out the fire. Conductors! Open the armory, open the sixth car, and distribute weapons to the recruits. Now!"
The train slowed and stopped.
Through the roar of the fire came the rapid thudding against metal.
Arrows. Ha. They couldn't even pierce reinforced glass…
But the glass was slowly spiderwebbing with cracks and scratches. I noted that it was happening on both sides. No accident — they had clearly prepared for this.
I reloaded the revolver. Keys jingled nearby, locks clicked open. Powder pans were checked.
To hell with it, after this I'd allow loaded weapons on the train, even if someone accidentally shot themselves from the shaking!
The cylinder snapped into place. Six bullets. Ready. Behind me, soldiers smashed windows and began firing back. In the cramped space the gunfire sounded like cannon blasts.
I slid back the bolt and kicked the door open. There weren't many attackers — a few dozen, and some already lay bleeding out on the ground. They had no armor, just swords and bows.
"Archers can beat a train only in Civilization V, idiots!" I shouted, dishing out lead one after another.
The only thing I feared was another griffon with a barrel. Heaven forbid it hit the ammunition car…
The enemy broke, realizing the futility of their attack. Judging by their gear, they were meant more to finish off anyone who leapt from a burning train than to assault it head-on.
No griffons in sight either. Only when I squinted into the sky did I spot one struggling to flap away. Hopefully its wounds would prevent it from making it home. The other one was gone for sure.
But these men — they weren't getting away.
"Squad! Chase and capture! We can't have damned saboteurs in the rear!"
The car doors opened and the recruits rushed out in pursuit.
I lowered the still-smoking revolver and glanced back. On the tracks, the alchemical compound dropped on us continued to burn. Judging by the smell, it was petroleum-based, but clearly mixed with something else. The locomotive had already been extinguished and seemed largely undamaged. Steel isn't so easily melted. The broken windows... were the real pity.
I blew away the smoke and holstered the revolver. The attack had failed, but it still troubled me. If the enemy had simply thought to sabotage the rails, they would have done far greater damage. Which meant I now needed to assign troops to guard the railway.
Unfortunately, nearly all griffon riders were steel mages. Which meant they could easily wreak havoc on the rails.
We needed patrol trolleys.
But griffons were one thing, infantry another.
How had he gotten them into our rear? The lack of armor already said a lot. They had either disguised themselves as peasants and slipped through a neighboring region, or the griffons had carried them.
Lost in thought, I approached the nearest corpse and froze.
No, it wasn't the bullet-torn arm that struck me — muskets of large caliber had done even worse things to bodies. What shocked me was what the man held in that severed hand.
"Commander! We caught five!" reported a rosy-cheeked sergeant. His face was alight with triumph — first battle, and such success.
I gave him curt praise.
It took effort to pry open the dead fingers, even the severed hand clung tightly to its weapon. Bound prisoners were forced to their knees before me. I raised the sword, testing its balance. Yes, no doubt. A rubberized grip, a mark on the guard. A blade forged in our own Reikland. In our factories. On our machines.
I turned to the prisoners.
"A few minutes ago I had many questions for you… But now only one remains — where did you get this?"
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